


Karaoke Night at Harry's Hideaway

by Nathaniel_Quietly



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-09-23 12:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20340283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nathaniel_Quietly/pseuds/Nathaniel_Quietly
Summary: The X-Men go out for a night of drinks and karaoke.NOTE: This story is not tied to any specific continuity. These are all, more or less, my favorite versions of these characters.





	1. 'The Strangest Teens of All!'

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nausicaa82](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nausicaa82/gifts).

It was Saturday night in Westchester, and the mutants were out on the town.

"I rented the place out for the night," Warren Worthington III said as he held the door open to Harry's Hideaway. As always, he looked like a movie star, with a three piece sky-blue Armani suit tailored to his thin, muscular frame; his golden hair expertly tousled; his wings burnished. "It's ours until two." He smiled in that sweet, lopsided way that the ladies always found charming. "Surprise."

Jean Summers, luxuriating in a Gucci evening dress the color of pale limes, smiled and gave her old friend a quick hug before walking into the bar. The place had, over the years, seen more late night cram sessions, celebrations, wakes, and bad beat poetry readings than she could remember. Two of those wakes, in point of fact, had been for her. 

She brushed the thought away as more than a little morbid and took a deep breath, pulling in the scents of cedar wood and spilled beer, then turned her head, her loose auburn locks bouncing. 

"Scott?" she said. "You coming?"

Her husband, Scott Summers, was standing just inside the door, a bemused look on his face. He wore a much more conservative, professorial ensemble, with a rust-colored turtleneck under a suede brown jacket and slacks. The dim light glinted dully off the lenses of his ruby quartz sunglasses.

At Jean's voice, he gave his head a quick shake, and walked over to put his arm around her waist.

"Sorry," he said, a touch sheepishly. "Reminiscing, I guess."

"You know, you could reminisce without blocking the door, Cyke," Bobby Drake chuckled as he walked in. "Some of us are trying to party here."  
Drake certainly looked ready to party: his mouse-brown hair was practically shimmering with an overabundance of product, and he wore a t-shirt printed with a tuxedo and denim jeans over his heroically-muscled frame.

"Our fearless leader may perambulate where he chooses, my young friend," Hank McCoy grumbled from behind him. He was a full head shorter than everyone else, but twice as wide; it didn't help that he walked on his blue furred knuckles. He was decked out in a charcoal grey Brooks Brothers Big and Tall. "I'm sure he was scouting the perimeter for all points of entry and exit. Never can be too careful, right?" His sharp teeth pulled into a conspiratorial grin.

"Knock it off, Hank," Jean admonished... but she followed it with a wink.

Warren coughed gently into his palm, catching everyone's attention. "In case I didn't make it clear earlier," he grinned, "your tabs are on me. 

"This is our night. No murder robots, no kinky bondage cosplayers, no Darwinian immortals. Just us."

Warren had barely finished speaking when Bobby raced to the bar, nimbly hopping a stool. Harry, the bar's owner and proprietor, smiled widely beneath a thick wiry mustache gone grey with time. "Why, Bobby Drake!" he beamed. "I swear. What'll it be, chocolate root beer float?"

Bobby shook his head, matching Harry's grin. "Thank you, sir, but seeing as how Richie Rich back there is covering tonight, I'll start with a Guinness Extra Cold."

Harry put a finger to the side of his nose in a knowing gesture. "Figure even if it wasn't, you could make it so, young man," he said. Then he looked up in Warren's direction. "Speaking of, lad, your friend was here earlier this afternoon. Those special modifications are taken care of, we're ready when you are."

The others turned as one to Warren, their faces quizzical. Scott raised an eyebrow. "'Modifications'?"

Warren raised his shoulders in an easy shrug. "I had Forge splice in some Sh'iar tech into the karaoke machine. Now it has access to every any song ever recorded on this planet...and quite a few that were not." He nodded up at Harry. "Can I get a vodka martini?" 

"Not a problem," Harry said, "though i do have a bottle of that champagne you like so much."

"I appreciate that," Warren said, "but I'll stick with the martini. For now, anyway."

Hank raised a clawed forefinger. "Actually, Harry, I'd like a flute of that champagne."

Harry gave him a quick thumbs up. "You got it, Henry."

Hank turned his attention to his best friend. "Well, Warren, as our host and progenitor of this soiree, I believe it is incumbent upon you to take the first song."

Warren laughed and held up his hands. "Oh, no. My money, my rules. And that rule is: I don't sing. Besides, it's a lot more fun for me to watch you guys have fun."

"Oh, come on, War," Jean pouted. "Not even 'Fat Bottomed Girls'?"

"Not even Freddie Mercury's finest lyrical achievement," Warren agreed. "Trust me, I'd much rather just be here. With all of you."

"Cool! Firsties," Bobby piped up, oblivious to the sweetly somber mood the room had taken. He chugged down the last of his pint and hopped from the bar stool, jogging over to the small stage that anchored the southwest corner of the bar. 

He was climbing the stage when a tall man with platinum blonde hair entered, wearing a navy button down shirt and slacks. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his red tie was loose at the neck. With him was a beautiful young woman in a vibrant yellow dress and even more vibrantly green hair.

"...am I late?" the man asked.

Scott looked up from his ginger ale with surprise, a bright smile creasing his face. "Alex!" he called, standing up and walking over. He gripped his brother's hand in a warm shake. "It's good to see you. And Lorna! How are you?"

"I'm well, Scott," the woman replied shyly. "It's...it's good to see you."

Jean had stood up as well, and embraced the other woman in a hug that seemed to surprise her. "You too," Jean said warmly. "I'm so glad you could make it."

"As am I," Hank said from his place at the bar. "Though I take it this isn't just a reunion for the senior class?"

Warren smiled at that, and tipped his martini glass in Hank's direction. "Got it in one, old man," he said cheerfully. "Like I said, this is our night. All of us. Drinks are on me, by the way," he said to the two new arrivals.

"What'd we miss?" Lorna asked. She was starting to look more comfortable.

"Bobby was setting up for the first round of karaoke," Jean said.

"Oh, lord…." Alex moaned.

"Aw, yissssssss," Bobby crowed happily into the mic as a baseline that wasn't quite Queen's 'Under Pressure' began beating out of the overhead speakers. "Y'all knew this was coming…

"Stop! Collaborate and listen! Ice is back with a brand new edition…."


	2. All New, All Different...Hope You Survive the Experience!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More people show up, more drinks are drunk, more songs are sung.

"Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...same as it ever was…." Hank belted out in a fluid monotone.

The bar had begun filling up over the last hour. Logan had arrived escorting Ororo, though it was probably more fair to say that she had drug him along with her. She was typically iridescent in a Nigerian dress the color of sapphires, sipping a Tequila Sunrise and nodding to the music. He was typically nonchalant in a flannel shirt, leather jacket, and jeans, though he'd made a point to shine his cowboy boots. He was idly chewing a lit cigar and eyeing the exits.

Kurt Wagner had shown up stag in a pressed black tuxedo and bow tie; Peter Rasputin followed shortly after in a plain white shirt under a plaid sweater vest.To the surprise of most and delight of all, he was also escorting Kitty Pryde, herself resplendent in a pink off-the-shoulder blouse and belted black mini-skirt. The two hadn't been a couple in some time, but it was nice to see they were still friends.

The mic had stayed hot so far that evening as well. Jean had kept the energy of Bobby's opener going with a poppy, vibrant delivery of Cyndi Lauper's 'Girls Just Want to Have Fun'; Bobby came back and apologized with a rousing interpretation of 'The Impression That I Get', from The Mighty Mighty Bosstones. Ororo had walked in and immediately turned heads with a soulful rendition of Grace Jones's 'Storm'. Now, Hank was in the middle of...something. 

Hank finished his medley and took a slight bow to the scattered applause. "Than kew," he drawled. "I know the Talking Heads aren't for everyone, so I appreciate the indulgence. If I take another turn, I'll try to pick something a touch more mainstream."

"’Tossed Salads and Scrambled Eggs’!" Warren called out mischievously.

"Absolutely not!" Hank grumbled, his tone annoyed. "You, my avian acquaintance, will get eighties New Wave, and you will like it! And for the last time, I neither hear nor see the resemblance!"

That got a laugh from the audience. Hank rolled his eyes, gave the room a good natured smile, and handed the mic off to Kitty, who had just climbed the stage. 

"Hey, I haven't seen her, but, is 'Yana here?" She paused a moment to listen for any response, then blew a soft raspberry into the mic. "Girl's probably off in the Darkforce Dimension again," she sighed. Polite laughter rippled through the crowd. "Anyway, I ask because we usually do this one together. Ever since we were kids. Which, yeah, means you all are about to get hit with some classic boy band pop! Hit it!

"Everybody! (Yeah-ah)

"Rock yo' body! (Yeah-ah)..."

"Please tell me she didn't let Allison do that to her hair," Kurt murmured to Peter, who was sitting next to him. His German accent tickled the words as he spoke.

"That rat's nest? Please," Alison Blair replied as she slid into the chair at Kurt's right. She was in a classy, sparkling white dress with a mink coat, and her skin seemed almost luminescent as the music played. "No, you can blame Lyla Cheney for that nightmare." She sighed. "I swear, that girl," she chucked a thumb in Kitty's direction, "calls Lyla up yesterday, asks her to 'port halfway across the galaxy to help her pick a style and wardrobe for tonight. And that," she sighed again, "that is what they came up with."

"I like the outfit," Peter rumbled. Allison slapped his pec with the back of her hand. 

"You would, big guy."

"Thank you!" Kitty cried cheerfully as her song faded. "Anyone else want a turn? Ali, I see you out there, want to put us all to shame?"

Allison through up her hands in mock exasperation. "Girl, I just got here. Let me get a drink first!"

Laughter once again rippled through the crowd, though Kurt, Jean, and Alex all gave a teasing 'booooo'. Then Kurt wrapped his tail around his gin and tonic and raised a hand. "I'm happy to step up if no one else wishes to follow that performance, fraulein," he said amiably.

"Mic's all yours, Fuzzy Elf," she replied, and handed it to him when he teleported on stage. 

After a moment, the opening horns of Tom Jones's 'It's Not Unusual' faded in over the speakers, and everyone started clapping before Kurt even began to croon. Most of those attending were familiar with his rendition of that particular hit, and it was always a crowd-pleaser.

All too soon, however, the horns once again faded. "Danke, mein freunds," he said, as the cheers and wolf whistles assailed him. "If no one objects, I do have one more number I'd like to perform...though I'll need some help." He stretched out a hand theatrically. "Peter? Logan? Would you join me?"

It took some cajoling from the crowd, and no small amount of playful pushing from both Kitty and Allison, before Peter finally acquiesced and joined his friend onstage. 

Logan, on the other hand, flatly refused...until a small telepathic burst made him reconsider.

Come on, Logan, Jean said in his mind. He glanced over at her; she had a small smile, just for him. Her arm was on Scott's, who had joined the others in cheering for him to get up, but that smile...it was his alone.

Please? It's for your friends.

At which point he tossed back the rest of his Molsons, ground out the cigar in the ashtray Ororo had made him grab, and walked over, grabbing two extra mics from Harry at the bar on his way.

"Don't even pretend you forgot the choreography," Kurt said.

"I hate you," Logan replied.

After a moment, the music started...and there were audible gasps of amazement as the three men performed a perfect version of the Rat Pack's 'I Get a Kick Out of You'.


	3. A Force To Be Reckoned With

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theresa Rouke has a chat. Jaime Madrox makes a fool of himself.

“Where’s Berto? And Sam?” asked Theresa. Her shock of red hair was pulled back in a flowing, curling ponytail. She was wrapped in a slinky black and gold number evocative of her father’s old costume, and she was cradling a pint of beer so dark it looked like it was absorbing ambient light.

“Ah, Tony decided to throw a big get together at Stark International tonight,” Warren said. He tried to sound casual. “The boys decided to go schmooze, and they took Rahne, X’ian, and Dani with them.” He took a sip of his martini. “It’s fine. I get it. Money men make money moves. And hey, it’s not like they haven’t played Avenger before.”

Behind them, Longshot was performing The Scissor Sisters’ ‘I Don’t Feel Like Dancing’ in an outfit that was most likely made of black latex and may have been spray painted on. Contrary to the stated intention of the song, he clearly did feel like dancing. And every woman’s eye in the bar--not to mention a couple of the men’s--were glued to him. 

All except Theresa. Warren’s ego appreciated that.

“Och, it’s no that bad,” she replied. That couldn’t be her first beer, Warren noticed. Her Scots accent only thickened if she’d had a pint. To be fair, that was the only identifier; as much as he’d seen her drink, he’d never seen Theresa Rourke drunk. “It’s only…” she glanced at her wrist. “...few minutes after ten. Lads’ve goat plenny o’ time.”

“Ah, screw those chumps,” Jamie Madrox belched as he walked into the conversation. He hadn’t even bothered to dress up, instead arriving in the same t-shirt and trench combo he always wore.

“We don’t need ’em!” Madrox continued. He smiled. Or at least, showed some teeth. “They don’t need us, we don’t need them, right?”

“Jaime, dear, did ye have a few drinks before ye came t’ the party?” Theresa asked. Her tone was neutral, but Warren could tell by the look in her eye that he shouldn’t interject.

Jaime stood up a little straighter, and ran a quick hand over his face. “Would you be upset if the answer was yes?”

Theresa didn’t bat an eyelid. “Mightily so.”

Madrox nodded. “Then the answer is no. Also, will you excuse me?” And he slapped himself across the face, hard.

There was a small, almost unnoticeable pop! of air displacement as an exact duplicate of Madrox appeared to the original’s left. The dupe swayed, bent over, sucked in air. He looked like he was about to vomit.

“Hey! You!” The first Madrox said, massaging the dupe lightly on the shoulder. "Come on, buddy, up and at ‘em. Go sleep it off in the car. No, no keys, its unlocked, you know that. Just crash out in the back seat, I’ll come check on you later.” 

The drunken copy staggered to the door, and even managed to open it on his third attempt. The original Madrox looked up and smiled. “What was that guy’s deal, huh?” He winked, then looked around. “God, it is really nice to see so much of the Factor here. Hey, Guido came out! Old and new, I guess, right? How’ve you been, Warren?”

“Fine, Jamie,” he said. “Nice trick.”

Madrox ran a hand through his thin brunette hair. “Yeah, I’ve been practicing that one. I figure, there are worse ways to survive a hangover. And it might help me with a case in the future? Question mark?” Madrox’s eyes went wide. 

“Oh my God,” he said tonelessly. “I am ridiculously underdressed.”

“I don’t believe it, what a deduction. This man is a licenced detective, ladies and gentleman!” Warren cracked. Theresa stifled a laugh behind her hand.

Madrox, rather than be hurt or offended by the snark, instead became apologetic. On stage, Longshot gave way to Julio Richter, in an ironic black top hat and tails, singing Twisted Sister’s ‘We’re Not Gonna Take It’. “Oh, man, Warren. I am so sorry. I should have read the invitation more closely. I can run home if you want, put on polo or something. Anything. This party is awesome, let me make it up to you.”

Warren’s face softened. “Oh, it’s all right, Jamie. I appreciate the apology. We’ll call it even, since it’s pretty obvious that you also missed the part of the invite where I said I was covering the bill.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “There was no point in ‘pre-gaming’, as it were. I was happy to pick up the tab. This is a night for family.”

Jamie gave Theresa a cockeyed glance; she grinned and nodded slowly. He slapped a hand over his eyes again. “Okay, that’s it, from now on I actually read my mail.” He took a deep breath, and reached out a hand to shake Warren’s. “So we’re good?”

Warren took the proffered hand and gave it a shake. “Yes. We’re good.”

Jamie ran a tongue over his teeth. “Good enough for a glass of scotch?”

That got an actual laugh from Warren. “Good enough for a vodka tonic.”

Richter was finishing his ballad; Shatterstar--in a matching white hat-and-tails ensemble--was already applauding with enthusiasm. Jamie heard the music dying down, and started looking around wildly. “Actually, let me put a pin in that.” To Theresa, he said, “Hey, have you seen Alex? We have to do a thing.” When Theresa shook her head, he moved away, shouting, “Alex! Alex, we have to do the thing! Alex! Come on, don’t make me Regulate by myself! I mean I can, but it’s more fun when you do it!

“Alex!”

Warren cast a look at Theresa. “That was...memorable,” he said.

“Cut the poore lad some slack,” she said. “He’s had a rough few years.” She took a long pull from her glass and said, “Warren, if ye don’ mind, I need ta find Neena. It’s been a dog’s age, I should say hello.”

Warren nodded his goodbyes, and Theresa wandered away as Jamie and Alex mounted the stage. He was pleased to note that Jaime had at least made some effort; he'd ditched the stained, well worn trench coat and appeared to have borrowed Scott's suede jacket.

The two stood together awkwardly for a minute, before a melodic whistling began, followed by what sounded like...movie dialogue.

"Is that...is that from Young Guns?" Warren murmured under his breath.

Sure enough, Madrox began, 

"It was a clear black night, a clear white moon

"Warren G is on the streets, trying to consume…"

A moment later, Alex chimed in.

"Just hit the east side of the L.B.C.

"On a mission tryna find Mister Warren G…"

The pair continued rapping through Warren G and Nate Dogg's 'Regulators'. When Madrox got the line "I can't believe they're taking Warren's wealth," the pair pointed finger guns where Warren stood in the back of the room. He threw his hands up in mock surrender, and everyone laughed.


	4. The Blue and the Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anna Marie and Remy LaBeau share some memories. Lucas Bishop makes a statement.
> 
> Special Thanks to my buddy Colby for the Cable/Hope song rec.

Tabitha Smith, fashionable and fashionably late as always, was nailing Jax Jones's 'You Don't Know Me' as Remy LeBeau returned to his table with two Mint Juleps. Anna Marie, the love of his life, blew him a quick kiss as she accepted hers.

"Thank ya, Cajun," she said. 

Remy couldn't help but notice that she looked absolutely stunning in her sea-green blouse and green-and-white striped skirt. He, on the other hand, was wearing just another tuxedo, though he'd set his own off with a blazing red cravat instead of a tie.

He was still admiring the curves of the fabric when a realization dawned on him.

"This is the outfit you wore on our first date, cherie," he said.

"Is it?" The question was innocent, but the eyes were sly. "I hones'ly cannot recall."

"Oui," Remy said. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep, remembering. "We went to...Papa Gumbo's Cajun Cookout. In...Times Square? No...Greenwich Village." He grinned a little. "You hated the gumbo. Too hot for you. You spit it right out into a napkin. Then…" he paused for a moment, then continued. "...then we took a carriage ride around Manhattan. An' I tried to kiss you." He opened his eyes, the grin widening. "Not my best idea."

"It was not," Anna Marie nodded, and took a sip of her Julep. "But what you said after was. That lil' speech really helped melt my heart toward ya, River Rat."

Remy took her delicately gloved hand in his bare own; looked deep into her green eyes. "And look at us now."

"Look at oh ma God, Nathan is gettin' on the stage."

The last part of that sentence was uttered in a near shriek; Anna Marie's eyes had gone wide as saucers, and her mouth was agape. Remy turned and saw that, yes, the towering older man, his scarred body clearly uncomfortable in a black blazer and dress pants, was being more or less dragged up the steps by a ferocious red-headed teenager half his size in a dress of glittering emerald sequins. 

When she finally pinned the man in the spotlight, she thrust a microphone into his hand and said into her own mic, "Can we get a hand for my dad, everybody?"

The room erupted in applause, whistles, and cheers. The burly man stood, taking it in with a glower; finally, however, be broke down and gave a small wave.

"The things I do for Hope, ladies and gentlemen," he grumbled into the mic. The pun got another laugh, this one more from surprise: Nathan Christopher Charles Summers Dayspring Askani'son...told a joke?

Hope, snickering a little herself, spoke up again. "All right everyone, I know this is a bit of a downer, but it was literally the only song I could convince Dad to get up here and sing with me. You ready, sir?"

"No," he said. "Not that it would stop you."

"You know me too well," she said, and the opening bars of 'Sunday, Bloody Sunday' by U2 began to play.

Remy shook his head a bit. "The things some people do for their kids," he sighed.

Anna Marie punched him on the arm, lightly. "Oh, come now, Cajun. You would bend over backwards ta enner'tain your lil' ones, and you know it."

Remy turned a calculated eye towards his date. "Well, now," he said slowly, "that certainly depen's on findin' a la belle petite who wants kids, non?"

Anna Marie took another knowing sip of her Julep. "I guess that's true," she said. "Maybe that beautiful girl is in this room tonight. Ya just never kn…"

"LeBeau."

The voice cut through the music, the father and daughter duet. It cut off Anna Marie mid-thought. It was a deep voice, a voice used to command, a voice used to not taking anyone's guff. A cop's voice.

The voice of Lucas Bishop.

Remy turned slowly in his seat, looking up at the man who'd addressed him. Though he remained seated, he made sure to look the other man in the eye. 

"Bishop," he said. His own voice was blank. "You have the worst timing."

Bishop was dressed in a Ralph Lauren two-piece, navy blue with a midnight blue tie. He hesitated a moment, swallowed, and said, "I'm...sorry to interrupt. May I sit down?"

Remy and Anna Marie glanced at each other, incredulity passing between them like a silent spirit. Finally, Remy said, "Ya. Suit yourself."

Lucas pulled out a chair, flipped it so the back would be facing his chest, and straddled it. 

"I know," he said, noting the looks on their faces. "It's a cop thing. I always sat in interrogations like this. It's a poor attempt at disarming the suspect. Eventually, though, I came to enjoy how it feels. Its comforting."

"Interrogation," Remy echoed, at the same time Anna Marie said, "Lucas, is Remy a suspect for something?"

"No," Bishop said quickly, then: " no, no, no. I have...I approached this wrong. LeB...Remy. When I first came to this time, I came with a surety of purpose. I came with an absolute, ironclad belief that you were destined to betray your friends and destroy the world as it should have been.

"And years ago, I, we, all learned the truth: that you didn't bring about the Onslaught, and no one could have predicted who did."

He paused. Nathan and Hope left the stage, and Betsy Braddock--clad in an evening gown so deeply purple it looked black--began an elegant rendition of 'Wonderwall', by Oasis.

"And since that time, you and I, and Marie, we have all served together on teams. We've played baseball and had barbeques. We been to weddings and funerals. We've saved the world more times than any of us can count.

"And I...I have never once...apologized."

He held out a beefy hand.

"I'm sorry, Remy. I'm sorry I suspected you. Harassed you. I'm sorry I have not said this sooner."

Remy looked at the proffered hand for a long time. For a long time, he said nothing.

"Remy…" Anna Marie said cautiously.

"Bishop...Lucas," Remy began. "Do you know why, after all dis time, I've never asked for dis apology? Why I never said 'I tol' you so'?" He took Bishop's hand and shook it. "Because the man I was when you first came into our lives might have been capable of doin' the things you said I was gon' do. I did some bad in my youth, and I was afraid I was gon' do bad in the future. But I didn't. And I t'ink, at least a little bit o' that, a little bit of my road to becoming a better person, was workin' wit', and learnin' from, you."

Remy looked at Anna Marie. "Though not nearly as much as this one here, o' course."

"I...thank you, LeBeau. Remy," Bishop said. His voice was humble.

"Lucas," Anna Marie chimed in, "have you spoken to Nathan and Hope yet?" She smiled sweetly. "I bet they could do ta hear somethin' similar."

"They are next," Bishop confirmed. "I...wanted a drink before I spoke to them." He nodded to each of the couple in turn. "Enjoy the rest of your evening," he said.

The pair waited until Bishop was well put of earshot before saying anything. Anna Marie broke the silence with a snort. "Oh Cajun," she said softly. "Any o' that line ya fed him even a lil' bit true?"

Remy shrugged loosely. "It was more true than not, chere," he said. "Bishop's a good man. Good men can be hard to like." He shrugged again. "Its us rascals who're easy to love."

"Ugh. Don't I know it," she groaned. Then she said, "Hey. Looks like Betsy's leavin' the stage. You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"

Remy nodded. "'Lay Me Down'?"

Anna Marie grabbed his hand. "Let's go! Looks like Meggan might be tryin' to beat us, and ah cain't stand no more Britpop!"

"Fine," Remy called out, "but I get Willie's part this time! I dont have the range for Loretta!"


	5. Generation Next

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby tries to get Cecilia Reyes to smile. Jubilee and Paige Guthrie have a reunion.

"I don't even know why I'm here," Cecilia Reyes moaned. She wore a shockingly white dress with a frilly skirt and matching pearls. Her hair was tied back in a braided bun.

"Y'know, you say that, like, eleventy billion times a day," Bobby said. He was sitting on the stool next to her, sipping another Guiness and watching Jubilee massacre a Blackpink song in a pale pink Versace one-piece.

"This is all your fault," Cecilia continued.

"Okay, no, you’re right. *That* is what you say eleventy billion times a day."

"Whatever." She shook a glass in his face. The liquid sloshed merrily around. "I ordered this J.D. on the rocks, but I guess the old guy didn't hear me. Top me off?"

Bobby took the glass and held his index finger over it. There was snap, and a crackling of air as the digit turned a translucent, shimmering white. Another moment, and an awkward, shining cube dripped down from its end. Bobby tapped his finger against the rim of the glass; with a delicate crunching sound, the cube splashed into the alcohol.

Bobby did the trick twice more, and held up the glass for Cecilia's inspection.

"That good?" He asked.

"I don't even know why I got an invite. I barely know anyone here," she said, not bothering to look.

"Aw, come on, Cici, that's not true," Bobby said, taking a pull from his beer. He waved at the stage, where Jubliee was dismounting. "Jubes! Hey! Come say hi!"

"What up, Drake?" Jubilee said, giving his a short hug. Then she turned. "Cici, good to see you!"

Behind Jubilee's head, Bobby waggled his eyebrows.

"I...hello, Jubilation," Cecilia said, giving Bobby a dark-eyed glance. "Bob was just…"

"Proving a point," Bobby stepped in. "What are you drinking, Lee?"

"Anything with a lime," Jubilee responded.

"Baaaaasiiiiic," Bobby sing-songed, but put up a hand to catch the bartender's attention. When that didn't work, he casually strolled down to the end of the bar and let himself around.

"You picked a song yet, Cici?" Jubilee asked around a handful of bar nuts.

"It's 'Cecilia', please," she said, trying to sound pleasant. "And no, I don't think I'll be singing tonight."

"Aww. Why not? Can't be any worse than me," Jubliee smiled. "It's fun, I promise."

"Maybe I'm just not good at fun."

Jubliee pouted. Then she saw a familiar face in the crowd. "Paige! Ohmigod, Paige! It's been forever! Come over here, girl!"

Paige Guthrie, clad in something long and blue and sparkly, broke off her conversation with Emma Frost and ran to the bar, wrapping her bare, lanky arms around her friend.

"Jubliee, darlin'!" She gushed. Then: "Hi, Cecilia, right? I remember you from one of the baseball games. Y'all're quite a short stop!"

"When were you ever at an X-game?" Jubilee was puzzled.

"I was...dating...Warren at the time." There was a pause. "We don't talk about it."

Jubilee opened her mouth, probably to respond with something lascivious, but she was interrupted by Bobby, still on the other side of the bar and holding three glasses.

"Gin and tonic with limes for the woman who store Brett Hart's sunglasses, Southern Comfort for the southern belle, and another finger of Scotch for the doctor." He grinned. "Anything else I can do for you ladies?"

A gruff voice responded before any of the women. "I don't know about them, young man, but you could do me the honor of getting out from behind my bar."

Bobby smiled apologetically. "Sorry, Harry! Have not tended bar since college. Just wanted to see if I could remember where everything was." He slipped easily back around to the cluster of women.

"You tended bar in college, Drake?" Jubilee asked. "Impressive."

Bobby waved a lazy hand. "Just for a semester. I'd seen 'Cocktail', thought I could be Tom Cruise."

Cecilia snort-laughed at that. "Tom Cruise, huh?" She asked, her first genuine smile of the evening crossing her face.

"And now I'll never hear the end if it," Bobby said easily. "Oh, hey, Monet's getting on stage. Cici, stick around, this'll be good."

"Oh, no," Paige murmured. "What NPR nightmare is she subjecting us to this time?"

Monet St. Croix, resplendent in a Claire Waight Keller dress, stood expectantly on the stage, waiting for the room's attention. After a few moments, she cleared her throat loudly into the mic. 

"I hope everyone is having a wonderful evening," she intoned after the room quieted down. "This is my gift to all of you.

"There's a fire starting in my heart

"Reaching a fever pitch and it's bringing me out the dark…"

Monet's rendition of Adele's 'Rolling in the Deep' was melodic, proficient, and stunning. When she was finished, she bowed low, and said, "Thank you all. This has been a delight. I hope to see all of you again in the very near future." And she stepped off the stage and left the bar with an air of expectation that everyone would soon follow.

"...wow," Cecilia said, finally. 

"Yeah, that's M," Paige said. "The be-all, end-all of the party."

"Excuse me," a quiet voice with an exotic Scottish lilt spoke into the microphone. All heads turned to see Theresa Rourke on stage. 

"Sorry," she said, a nervous smile on her face. "I didnae want to do my song before Monet did hers. I heard she wanted Adele, and I didn't want to...step on her toes." She coughed lightly, and continued. "So, uh, by yuir indulgence…

"I heard that you're settled down

"That you found a girl and you're, married now

"I heard, that your dreams came true

"I guess she gave you things

"I didn't give to you…"

Theresa's gift gave her perfect pitch, which meant that her performance of 'Someone Like You' was consummate on every note. Moreover, she brought passion, anguish, and pathos to the performance, taking the song beyond a technical Marvel and giving it a dark, dulcet weight that ached with emotion and power. 

As the last few notes echoed through the bar, the whole room gave Theresa a standing ovation. One of the first to rise and applaud was Cecilia Reyes.

"Thanks for dragging me out tonight," she murmured in Bobby's ear as the clapping continued. "This was nice."


	6. ResurreXion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor Borkowski, Glob Herman, and Hisako Ichiki steal drinks. Gabby Kinney and Quentin Quire light up the mic.

The hands of the clock behind the bar were closing in on half past midnight, and the kids were just getting started.

Armando Munoz had shown up in an understated midnight black vest over a tight black button-down shirt, black tie, black slacks, and shiny black loafers. The contrast with his deeply pale skin made him look like an undertaker, or a vampire. 

The look was undercut, though, by the fact that he was joyously singing Gloria Gaynor's 'I Will Survive', strutting up and down the stage with delighted animation. 

The crowd was into it, as well, clapping along and cheering as Armando hit the high notes...all but one large young man, looming over his table and the friend who accompanied him.

"I thought this was a Cake song," Robert "Glob" Herman rumbled. His eyestalks quivered in confusion in the pink-hued gelatin of his face. He was wearing a powder-blue prom tuxedo, complete with ruffles and a cummerbund. 

Victor Borkowski rolled his eyes in response. He looked exceedingly comfortable in a sharp charcoal grey three-piece. "Dude, that was a cover," he said. "'I Will Survive' is a classic. It's been around for ages."

"I dunno man," Glob Herman said his voice serious. "Cake is from the nineties. The early nineties. That's pretty old."

Victor took a sip of the screwdriver the bartender had surreptitiously slipped him and sighed. "You just have no appreciation for any musical act with less than three wailing guitars, do you," he said with a grin.

"Hey!" Glob replied in mock indignation. "Blink-182 barely has one guitar!" Victor laughed out loud at that. "Besides, what's it to you?"

But Victor was already eyeing the stage, where Armando was beginning his dismount. His face lit up with excitement. 

"Nothing to me," he said. "I'm too busy bringing sexy back."

"What?! You're doing it? Yes!" Glob crowed, as Victor jogged to the stage. 

"Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome...Fremde, etranger, stranger…" he began, then chuckled. "Sorry, always wanted to do that. Don't worry, no Liza Minelli musicals tonight. But it is a night of future sex love sounds, so I thought I'd bring a little...sexy back," he continued as the bass hit.

"You made that joke already!" Glob shouted through cupped hands, but the rest of the bar was already grooving. 

Victor went ahead and got going, even moonwalking across the stage to everyone's delight. When he finished the song on a very Prince-like twirl, he held up the mic again and said, "Glob, buddy, I know after two back-to-back dynamite performances, you're just aching to bring the room down. Come on up here, dude," he said to his friend, and then to the bar: "Everyone...prepare to be serioused."

The last line got a smattering of laughs and light applause as Glob Herman took the stage. Victor handed him the mic, and he said, "Thanks, bud. Though I think you didn't sell me right. Everyone," he said, raising his voice, "prepared to be...rocked." A moment later the slow and dulcet tones on Metallica's 'Nothing Else Matters' began pumping out of the speakers.

"So close, no matter how far  
"Couldn't be much more from the heart  
"Forever trusting who we are…" Glob Herman growled.

The last notes had barely faded when a wide-eyed whirlwind of wild energy that barely cleared four feet snatched the mic from Glob's hand.

"Bravo, Glob," Gabby Kinney said, applauding around the mic she'd stolen. She was wearing a crisp white shirt with pink suspenders and stylish pink shorts. Her black hair was tied back in a pink ponytail. She smiled up at Glob, crinkling the scars on her cheeks. "That was super fun. Really."

Glob Herman looked down at her suspiciously. "Isn't it past your bedtime, kid?" He asked. "Your sister know you're here?"

"Yes to both," Gabby replied amiably. "Are you supposed to be drinking the Bud Light I smell on your breath? Pretty sure the legal limit is still 21."

Glob stiffened. "As you were," he said, and stepped numbly off the stage.

"As great as Glob's performance was, I feel like I need to pick everyone back up," she said cheerily.

"Hey baby even though I hate you  
"I wanna love you  
"I want you-ou-ou…"

As Gabby continued to assure the audience that just like Ariana Grande, she had 'One Less Problem', Victor and Glob returned to their seats, as well as their attempts to enjoy their illicit beverages unnoticed. With everyone's attention on the kid onstage, it was relatively easy…

...until Victor felt a hand squeeze his left shoulder.

"Mind if I sit with you guys?" Hisako Ichiki asked as Victor tried to choke down the mouthful he'd nearly spit out.

"Uh, sure," Glob Herman covered for him. He quickly pushed his own glass between his legs under the table. "How, uh, how are you, Armor?"

"Glob." She gave him a teasing glare. "Robert. We're not in the Danger Room. Call me Hisako, okay?"

If Glob's blood had been visible in his waxy skin, his cheeks would have flushed a fiery red.

"Oh", he said. "Right. Sure thing...Hisako."

Gabby was pivoting from Grande's lyrics to Azalea's rap, which prompted startled applause; this, in turn, elevated to cheers when she ad-libbed her own first name in the lyrics:

"Uh,  
"Gabby, Gabby too baddie to be here stressing  
"I'm thinking I love the thought of you  
"More than I love your presence… "

"You doing a song tonight, Hisako?" Victor asked. Compared to Glob's sudden tied tongue, he was the picture of cool calm.

Hisako took a pull from her wine cooler and frowned in thought. "Oh, I don't know," she said. "Maybe. I could probably do 'Single Ladies'. Anyone picked Beyonce yet?"

"Aw, naw!" Glob chimed in, excited. "Come on, you gotta do some classic rock. Like me! You should do, like, Evanescence. That's totally in your wheelhouse."

There was a pause at the table. Then Hisako said, "I'm sorry, Glob...who?"

Glob looked over at Victor and shrugged. "Kids today," he said. "Don't know anything about the classics."

Victor ran a hand over his head spikes and bit his tongue in exasperation.

Behind them, Gabby finished and held the mic up. "Anyone else?" she asked sweetly.

The mic gave a sudden jerk, and flew from her hand. It sailed across the room into the fist of Quentin Quire. He wore a dark blazer over his omnipresent "Magneto Was Right" t-shirt, and shredded blue jeans. At least he'd had the decency to tie back his pink mohawk.

"My turn, Munchkin," he sneered as he walked towards the stage. Gabby stuck her tongue out at him, but surrendered her perch nonetheless. 

"None of you know real music," Quire snarled as he got on stage. "None of you know how to feel. But don't worry, feebs--i'll fix that for you.

"When I was a young boy  
"My father took me into the city  
"To see a marching band…"


	7. Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott breaks down. An unexpected guest appears. Logan swears. Warren settles the tab.

Ten minutes to two in the morning, and Harry's Hideaway had mostly cleared out. Almost everyone had toasted their friends, sang their favorite songs, and gone off to bed. Harry had stacked a few of the unused chairs on tables, and was running a rag over the empty bar.

Of all the revelers who had graced the Hideaway, the only ones still around were the original five friends, Kurt, Allison, and Logan.

And they weren't leaving until Scott did a song.

"Scottyyyyyyyyy," Bobby whined. He was about a beer over his usual limit. "C'moooooon, man. We all did one."

"Warren didn't," Scott said matter-of-factly. He nursed a scotch and soda--clearly not his first, his skin was too pale and clammy for it to be his first. But he wasn't downing them, either.

"And what, you want to be like Warren?" Bobby teased.

"Doesn't everyone?" Warren interjected before Scott could reply. He maneuvered gracefully over to the table. "I have the fix for this. Harry? Tequila. Five shots."

"Feeling a little left out here, Wings," Logan called from the table he Kurt, and Ally were sharing.

"They're not for us," Warren said, a devil's gleam in his eye. He pointed at the thin man in the red sunglasses at night. "They're for him."

Logan and Bobby both roared with laughter at that; Kurt, Allison, Hank all applauded, impressed. Jean turned a little green on her husband's behalf and gave Warren an "are you sure about this?" eyebrow.

And Scott...placid, unflappable Scott...looked nervous. 

"I don't know, Warren," he said. "That seems like...a lot."

"In the past seven hours, you have had…" Warren did a quick count in his head, pressing his right thumb to each finger, "three scotch and sodas, including that one, one Zima," Warren shuddered as he said it, "and five ginger ales I'm reasonably sure you tried to pass off as either vodka or gin." He grinned. "Oh, and you split a plate of X-treme nachos with the missus there. You'll be fine."

"Keeping tabulations on our alcohol consumption, War?" Hank queried. 

"Wanted to have a ballpark figure in my head when the tab came," Warren said easily. "Not that I think Harry would cheat me, but that's hard to turn off, you know?"

"Tequila! Five shots! For the skinny kid with glaucoma!" Harry shouted cheerily as he brought a try to the table. This sparked a round of laughter that helped break a bit of the tension.

"All right, all right," Scott said, and knocked back a shot. He slammed the empty glass on the table to the cheers of everyone around him. "I'll drink the drinks…" shot, cheers, slam; "...so graciously offered. But I want to make it clear…" shot, cheers, slam; "...I am not bowing to peer pressure. And I am not…" shot, cheers, slam; "...budging on my choice to sit out this particular audition for Mutantdom's Got Talent." Scott threw back the final shot, thumped the final glass upside down on the table, and ran a hand over the back of his mouth. "I appreciate your efforts, Warren. But I'm just not a showman."

***  
"DON'T STOP! BELIEVIN!'  
"HOLD ON TO THAT FEE-HEELIN'  
"STREET LIGHTS!  
"PEPO-HOOOooooOOOOOLLLLLLEEE!"

Scott's friends, already red-faced and hand sore from clapping and cheering their stoic leader for taking the stage, broke out into fresh applause as he did a passable take on the high note from Journey's karaoke classic. Jean, Kurt, and Bobby had joined him on stage, providing back up dancing as he sang, and Allison was providing an impromptu light show to accompany them. 

"Thank you!" Scott roared as the song ended. "I'm not that drunk, I promise!"

"Bullshit, Summers!" Logan roared back, and everyone collapsed into their chairs in exhausted laughter. 

Then, before anyone could regroup, a slow, pert clap came from the door of Harry's Hideaway.

"Marvelous performance, Scott," Professor Charles Xavier said as he wheeled into the bar. He was wearing a pinstripe suit two tones of green, with an forest green tie. He was using his traditional wheelchair tonight, the one he used in public when he thought the Shi'ar-modified hoverchair would draw to much attention. 

"I always wished you felt more comfortable cutting loose like that with the other students," Xavier continued.

""Prof...professor?" Scott stumbled over the word. "I didn't...did you want to come out with us tonight?"

"Oh no, dear boy," Xavier said, his voice soothing. "Tonight was a night for the students. Why, Warren didn't even send me an invitation." He glanced at the blonde playboy, who had the decency to look a little embarrassed. "I would, however, appreciate a chance to perform the final song of the evening. If I may be so bold."

The men and women who had all, at one time or another, counted themselves Xavier's students, looked at each other. All except Logan, who just glared at the man in the wheelchair and picked his teeth with a splinter of wood.

"I mean, sure, Charles," Warren spoke up. "If you'd do us the honor."

"Thank you lad," Xaiver said, wheeling towards the stage. When he got there, everyone realized at once that there was not a convenient wheelchair access ramp.

"Let me get the mic for you, sir," Scott rose at once, then swayed on unsteady feet. 

"Oh, no need," Xavier said...and stood from his wheelchair. 

There was an audible gasp or two from the combined witnesses. Xavier stared out at them blankly, then seemed to realize what was amiss.

"I...took the liberty...of putting on some Shi'nar braces under my pantaloons?" He said. "Just in case this happened?"

"That...doesn't sound like Charles," Hank said cautiously.

"Don't smell like Charlie neither," Logan said, knives out between his knuckles. 

"Whoa!" Xavier said, putting up his hands. "Logan! James! Hugh! Whatever you're calling yourself these days! It's me! Its Wade!"

"I know," Logan said. 

"So, uh…" he pointed an index finger from one of his raised hands, "...you gonna sheathe those things?"

"Nope," Logan said.

"Ah, come on, guys! Be a sport about this! I wasn't lying about War not sending me an invite, and I just wanted to do one song! Look, I image-induced up for you! Besides…" he shrugged. "I almost never get to do prose. Please?"

Logan growled, starting to advance on the lunatic imposter. But Scott laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Why not," he sighed, as Logan turned his glare on the man. "Let him have this one."

With a grimace Logan sheathed his weaponry. "Fine," he growled. "But I want a bottle a' bourbon. No ice, no glass. A bottle. Y'hear that, Harry?" he called out.

"Bottle of bourbon for the mountie," Harry replied genially. 

And everyone sat down to watch Wade Wilson--disguised as their mentor and friend--begin to rap.

"Here I go, here I go, here I go again  
"Girls, what's my weakness? (Men!)  
"Ok then, chillin', chillin'  
"Mindin' my business…"

Warren quietly made his way to the bar as Wade continued to 'Shoomp'. "What's the damage, Harry?" He asked.

"Well, sir," Harry said, "if I had kids, you'd probably be putting one and a half through college. I had to make a couple of runs to the liquor store to cover some shortages your crew drank through." 

"Plus you'll need to restock just about everything, and I'm betting there's a bit of damage to the walls and furniture," Warren said amiably. "I get it, Harry. There's not a lot of venues that would cater to the likes of us, especially not for a whole evening." Warren pulled his checkbook from his breast pocket. "Would a quarter mil cover everything?"

Harry's eyes nearly rolled up in the back of his head. Warren wondered for a moment if the old man was about to faint. After a moment, he took in a hard breath and said, "Several times over, lad. That's too generous by half."

"Nonsense," Warren said with that easy smile. "Like I said when we first got here, I take care of my friends. And you've been here for me, Jean, and the boys almost as long as Charles has. The, uh, the real Charles," Warren amended with a chuckle. "So who do I make this out to? I just now realized I don't even know your last name."

"Well, that's the trick, kid," Harry said, his tone confidential. "'Harry' was my father's name. Harry Lieber."

"Oh, Ha...sir, I am so sorry," Warren said. His heart felt like it had fallen into his stomach. "We've been calling you 'Harry' for years! More than a decade…!"

The man who wasn't Harry shrugged it off. "Everyone does!" he laughed. "I'm used to it. Not so great with names myself. Used to have a regular named 'Bruce', for example. And I can't tell you how many times I called that young man 'Bob'!" He chuckled. "No, it's fine, Warren. It feels like I'm honoring my pop."

"Okay," Warren said, breathing a little easier. "Who should I make this check out to, then?"

Mr. Lieber told him. Warren smiled, scribbled down the name and his signature, and handed the paper to him. 

"You take care...Harry," Warren said.

"You too," Harry replied. "All of you. Take care of each other.

"Excelsior!"


End file.
